The Time Dancer

By Zelda Leah Gatuskin

A romantic tale of time travel, magic, music, dance, mistaken identities and parallel worlds. Can one really navigate the vast sea of Time? When George Drumm, a wandering fiddle player with a thirst for adventure, falls in love with the Gypsy dancer Esmarelda, he must learn the secrets of the Spiral Map of Time or lose her to the future. Meanwhile, Esmarelda is on her own mission. Her beloved pet has been stolen, and her quest to rescue it - and settle the score with her nemesis, Malcom the Master Seer - takes her to forbidden places. She and George leapfrog across the Spiral in search of lost cats, missing satchels and each other. In the process, they share glimpses of their fairy-tale world with residents of the dusty town of Caliente in the Alternate World (our world), "where magic is forbidden." Fans of romance, fantasy, and magic will delight in this whimsical tale of time travel and a magical universe that exists adjacent to our own - just the other side of our dreams.

When her beloved cat is stolen, the Gypsy Esmarelda must travel through time to rescue him. However, what Esmarelda does not know about her cat Audy leads to a quest that brings up her past and defines her future. What is the reason behind his seemingly bizarre disappearance? The secret behind the theft of Audy is one that will rouse past deviants Esmarelda has struggled to escape. Fate guides her to George Drumm. The intrepid fiddler had set out from his home on tiny Sunweir Island to learn about the wandering tribes who left their marks on its cliffs and cairns, and was ultimately taken in by them. Traveling by the Gypsies' magical means, with mixed success, George and Esma traverse the Spiral Map of Time in search of the missing cat, the dastardly Malcom, and each other. In their pursuit, they encounter Gypsy troupes, devious imposters, the Alternate World, magic gone awry, and new friends who foreshadow their future. Romance blossoms along the way, but will George and Esmarelda be together forever, or lose each other in the Spiral Map of Time?

"Gatuskin weaves a delightfully magical story which tricked me into thinking she was from another time, or maybe a Gypsy in a past life,” --Lisa Law, author of "Flashing on the Sixties"

“Gatuskin creates a vivid and bizarre universe, certain to satisfy the appetites of enthusiasts of such authors as Lewis Carroll and J.R.R. Tolkien. -- Michael Bush, Manhattan Theatre Club

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amador Publishers, LLC
• Release date: Jun 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9780938513537

Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Zelda was born and grew up in Wilmington, Delaware, and attended Emerson College in Boston, where she received a B.S. degree in Visual Communications. With her husband she owns and operates Studio Z, multi-media arts, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. In addition to her work as an author, editor, visual artist and website designer, she has worked as a volunteer for a variety of community organizations and progressive causes.

Book preview

THE TIME DANCER

a novel of Gypsy magic

Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Copyright 1991 Zelda Leah Gatuskin

published by

AMADOR PUBLISHERS

SMASHWORDS EDITION

ISBN: 978-0-938513-53-7

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For my family

THE TIME DANCER

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

The 22 Keys of the Tarot

Illustrations

Spiral Map of Time Trilogy: Books 2 & 3

Books by Zelda Leah Gatuskin

Prologue

George! George! George Drumm, where are you!?

George! Come on! We're going to be late!

The voices of the young men rang through the late afternoon mist but the George in question did not reply.

Oh, for crying out loud! Wilbur muttered, plopping down on one of many low stone walls that criss-crossed the rolling fields.

What are we going to do? Artie asked, coming up behind him.

Find another fiddler -- fast.

And where do you propose we go looking for a fiddler this late in the day, and who do you suppose we'll find who can play with us at the wedding this very night? And even if we find someone, the Corys will have our heads if we show up without George Drumm. He's the reason they hired us, and they won't take anyone else...

All right, all right, Artie! What do you suggest we do?

I don't know, just keep looking and waiting, I guess. He'll show up sooner or later, he always does. Maybe he's down by the old cairns. How about you go back to your mum's house to see if he's shown up for practice, and I'll jog down to the cairns and then meet you back there.

"Well, be quick about it. We need to rehearse even if his highness doesn't. Sure, he always shows up for the jobs -- and to collect his pay -- but what about us? He gets away with murder, he does! Never practices, never spends a minute getting organized. Just shows up and plays and plays whatever he will -- with us following along behind as best we can -- and everyone loves him. They can't get enough. And if there's ever a wrong note or something a wee bit off, it's us they blame! Oh, Mister Drumm can do no wrong, he can. 'Too bad about the lads,' they'll say, 'too bad George can't find some musicians who are his equal,' they'll say. But I say, you won't find me still living with me mum when I'm thirty-odd years old, or missing practices, or getting lost in the moors for days on end. No sir! I'll be married to the prettiest daughter of the richest family on the island before I'm twenty-five -- and there won't be a soul would accuse me of playing badly on my flute then!"

Wilbur found he had made this speech to himself. Artie was already well down the path toward the ancient burial heaps.

*

They're looking for you, Mister.

George pushed his hat back from his face and opened one eye, groaning. The bent old woman shaking her cane at him was as strange as the dream visions still lingering in his awareness. He sat upright and yawned, trying not to appear too interested in this self-appointed alarm clock. He had seen her before, from a distance. She too wandered the moors and the rocky coasts of the island. From his favorite vantage point atop the Corbel Shernyie, George would sometimes watch her hunched silhouette creeping along in the distance, stooping now and again to pick something up from the ground and place it in a large straw basket.

What've you been collecting? George noticed the basket now. It was resting at her feet, covered with a linen cloth.

None of your business, she said mischievously, in a brittle voice. Why don't you want your friends to find you?

George could hear Artie's calls in the distance, first growing louder and nearer and then becoming faint again. George guessed that Artie had turned in the wrong direction and gone down through McGiver's Lea. He was glad, wanting to talk more to this strange woman.

They'll find me in good time. I like it here. Tell me, do you know anything about the people who left these drawings on the rocks? George pointed to the spot where he had been resting. Intricate patterns had been laboriously incised in the hard stone. The design that most intrigued George was the double s-shaped spiral. It was so perfectly proportioned. He would sometimes sit at home and try to draw this spiral himself, but he could never get it just right. No matter how he tried, he could not draw all of the coils the same distance apart, nor make the two halves of the s of equal size.

His teachers at school had been the first to show him the glyphs, taking him and his classmates to the cairns and lecturing them on the images, which they said ranged from two to ten thousand years old. Twenty years later, George was still fascinated by this, and he returned again and again to marvel at how the ancient craftsmen had wrought such perfect geometry in stone.

The crone stepped over and looked at the spiral upon which George had been resting his head as he slept. Then she looked into George's eyes, squinting as if looking for something at a great distance. Finally, satisfied by what she saw, the woman spoke in her shrill, quavering voice:

Folk have been passing across these islands for all of Time. The sea brings them, and the harsh sea gales often blow them away again. See how many different marks there are here? They have been left by many different peoples at many different times. See the square wave pattern above you there? That is the symbol for the Piper People. You are of these people, George Drumm, as am I, as are most of us living here today.

Then this one is from a time even before the Piper People came. George tried to get the crone to talk about the spiral. She was giving him the same lesson his teachers had so many years ago. He did not have time to listen to her explain how each wave of migrants to the island had found the cairns with the mysterious markings and piled on new stones, cut with fresh designs, so as to leave their own message for the spirits and for the future. Every school child knew that one could trace the history of the island by studying the piles of stone. As one followed the images from the top of the pile to the bottom, one followed a time-line back to a long forgotten past. While much had been discovered about the Piper People from their relatively recent markings, until now George had found no one who could tell him about the perfect spirals and the other exquisite circular shapes which appeared on the earliest layers of so many of the cairns.

The crone traced the path of the spiral with the end of her cane. Her bony hand shook slightly and she hummed to herself. When she spoke again her voice sounded different -- no longer strained and squeezed with age, but breathy and low. George shivered. For the first time felt a bit fearful in the woman's presence. It was as if the words came out of the Past and were spoken by the wind through her aged lips.

The Wanderer People cross all of the lands of the world with the greatest ease, for they travel on the waves of Magic. Time and Distance are no obstacles to them. The Spiral is their map and the Circle is their time piece. And the Figure Eight, should you ever discover it, is the symbol they use to mark their paths. If you find a sideways Figure Eight, you will be able to follow the path; but if you find an upright Figure Eight, there will be no way for you to follow, for it means that the Wanderer has set out across Time -- and only one who knows the secrets can travel that path.

You mean they still exist, these Wanderers? Why have I not heard of them? Why have they not come back to our island in nine thousand years?

They are now as they were then. If they are not here, then they are somewhere else. Have they not come back in all this time, or have they simply hidden their recent messages to each other and the spirits with great care? Perhaps if one is old and unafraid and wise in the ways of Nature and wanders the empty places, one might still meet a Wanderer on Sumweir Island. The woman's eyes twinkled knowingly at George, whose mouth was beginning to drop open. "But you won't find a Wanderer residing on the island, only passing through. The climate here has grown harsh and cold since the time of these spirals, and the Wanderers much prefer lands full of sunshine. Have you not heard of a people called the Gypsies who live in great traveling bands far, far to the East, beyond the Dromandy Mountains? And there is another tribe called the Ethalees, with black complexions, who live in the southern deserts of the Great Continent. To find the Wanderers, one need only wander oneself, for by doing so you will become one with them, and then -- they will find you."

Why are you telling me all this? George's skin was prickling.

Because you asked, she said, her voice once more crackling with age. And besides, if you do not show up to play at the wedding tonight, you had better take to the road! Old Mister Cory will have your head! Hee hee, hee hee....

The crone's cackle blended with the mixed calling and panting of Artie, who had circled around and was approaching the cairn from the opposite direction.

Oh, heaven help me! George cried, noticing by the darkening sky that he was quite late. Over here, Artie, over here! C'mon, let's go! He snatched his fiddle from the ground and jammed his hat down on his head before running to intercept Artie. Good bye, Ma'am -- and thank you! he called over his shoulder. But his words were lost in the wind, and the old woman was nowhere in sight.

*

The wedding of John and Martha Cory's youngest daughter Shawna was not soon forgotten. In the first place, the bride was most uncooperative. Always a spoiled girl, she refused to don her wedding dress until her husband-to-be was summoned to speak to her regarding events at his bachelor's party the night before. It was uncustomary -- some would even say tempting ill fate -- for the bride and groom to meet prior to the ceremony on the day of the wedding, but with the guests already assembling and the bride threatening to call things off there was nothing else to be done.

An unruffled Hubert Quiggley spoke soothingly to Shawna through the door of her bedroom. John and Martha paced the hallway downstairs and tried not to listen. After what seemed an eternity, Hugh galloped down the stairs and with a breezy See you at church! was out the door. No sooner had the latch clicked behind him than Shawna appeared at the top of the stairs, exquisite in Martha's mother's satin gown. Well let's be off then, shall we? she said contritely, sniffling just the tiniest bit.

The upshot of all this was that when the trio of musicians arrived breathlessly at the Guild Hall fully expecting to be met by a furious John Cory and a pack of disgruntled guests, they found the hall empty. The tables at the far end of the room were laid with plates and silver and linen and crystal, great platters of untouched food, unopened bottles of champagne and ale. Chairs were set up neatly against the walls, leaving the middle of the floor open for dancing. A platform had been arranged for the musicians. They put down their instruments and wandered off to the large pantry, where they found several of the servers and butlers who had been hired for the occasion playing cards.

Bride had cold feet, one of the tuxedoed men said, tho' from what I hear, it's the groom who should worry. Ah well, he checked his pocket watch, I imagine the deed is done now. They sent a lad over a bit ago to tell us the ceremony was finally starting.

Artie, Wilbur and George could not believe their luck. They rushed back to their platform and tuned their instruments. George explained some ideas he'd had while out on the moors and led Artie and Wilbur through a couple of new melodies. When they heard the voices of the first guests approaching, they stopped playing and put bored expressions on their faces.

Mrs. Cory was one of the first to arrive at the Hall. She rushed to George, bubbling over with apologies.

...Of course after putting everyone through all that, we want the party to be extra special, and it may go quite late, but we will naturally make it worth your while...

Not to worry, Ma'am, George broke in graciously, these things happen. Really, it's our pleasure. This is what now, the third daughter of yours we've helped to marry? Why we're almost family by now, so please don't trouble yourself over us.

"Third and last, praise the lord! You're a sweet boy, George. Now why didn't I get you for a son-in-law? You had three tries!"

As Mrs. Cory bustled off, George turned to Wilbur and Artie who were trying to suppress their guffaws. Was this the same Mrs. Cory who had once made it quite clear that a mere musician would be no match for any of her girls?

The hall was filling up with a well-dressed but surly crowd. Anticipating the Cory's generous spread, they had all skipped dinner. What they had not anticipated was the two-hour delay at the church, and the folks streaming past the musicians were hungry and irritable. George's mother slowed for a moment and made a face. You lads have your work cut out for you, she hissed on her way by.

But the musicians were in fine spirits as George artfully led them through gentle renditions of some old ballads and love songs. The familiarity of the tunes and the soothing way they were played, as well as the long awaited food and drink, were soon restoring the wedding guests to good humor. By the time all had eaten their fill and no more brothers and best men remained to toast the newlyweds, the trio was picking up the pace with lively two-steps and reels.

As the floor filled with dancers, George gave a nod to the others, and they finally began to play full out. George always teased Artie that he danced with his squeeze box instead of playing it, and on this night he was outdoing himself. Wilbur, switching between an assortment of pipes and flutes as the music moved him, looked like a juggler. And with George fiddling so fast that it seemed possible he could actually become airborne, the group resembled a three-ring circus as much as a musical trio. Their excitement infected the crowd, and more and more people rose to dance.

George watched the pulsating throng and thought of the old woman -- for a moment he thought he saw her. But the harder he stared into the crowd, the less he could make out. The dancers became a blur, a swirl -- a spiral! Unaware of what he was doing, George let a reel he was playing turn into one of his own tunes. Artie and Wilbur, remembering the music from their brief practice, followed along with ease. They did not even notice when they had gone through all of the changes George had taught them and were playing completely new patterns. For the first time, they felt what George felt when he played: the music flowed in them and out of them, no thought was necessary -- whatever came out would be right, would be perfect.

Even after the bride and groom had been seen off in a shower of rice, the party went on. Everyone remarked on the performance of George and his boys. Soon, the ill-tempered bride and long delayed wedding were of secondary interest. It was the music that was truly notable. Women and men who had not danced in years took off their shoes and demonstrated their old style jigs for any who would watch. Long, long into the night the music and dancing continued.

One by one, exhaustion overtook the dancers and they limped home. John Cory stuffed a handful of notes into each musician's vest pocket, tipped his hat, and led a rosy-cheeked Martha Cory out. Finally, only George's mother remained, dozing in her chair by the musicians' platform. The men wiped their brows and put away their instruments.

Wake up, Mum, George said, and she sat straight up with a start. I have something to tell you all, he said as he stood on the platform, about to deliver a speech. I'm leaving the island. Artie, Wilbur, you're fine musicians; I know you'll find another fiddler, one who's better behaved than me no doubt. Mum -- what can I say? I hope you can understand...

George's mother had begun to weep. They were all somewhat drunk. No one said anything for a long time. Finally Artie gave George a hug and went out. Wilbur shook George's hand and tried to say something but all that came out was righto. He slung his bag over his shoulder and ran out to catch Artie. George walked his mother home. They went inside and George began to pack a few things; he would not sleep another night in the house in which he'd been born. Mrs. Drumm sat in her favorite chair and watched and listened to George's preparations, weeping softly.

Take care of yourself, Mum. George bent and kissed her on the forehead.

You're a good boy, George, she finally said. I've been lucky to have you with me as long as I've had. Blessed. I heard the voice of the Lord in your music tonight, son. And the wee spirits, too. Make sure to carry your fiddle with you always, my boy, and you will carry your special blessing and always be safe. This is why I can let you go without fear. Oh, but I will miss you terribly, son."

Let us believe we will meet again, George said, believing not at all. I love you, Mum. And with that he went out.

*

George did not rest until he had reached the cliffs overlooking the jagged southern coast of the island. He sat on the moss and watched the sun rise. When it was light enough to make out the sea below, George stood stiffly and bent to pick up a rock to throw. He had stood on this same spot many times in his boyhood and thrown rocks at the water. He wondered now how there could be any rocks left on this spot, for he was not the only youth to test his arm against the wind. George scanned the ground for just the right sized stone and settled for one which was larger than he would have liked. Picking it up, he was surprised by how heavy it felt, although it was only the size of a child's fist. George brushed away the loose dirt to see what kind of rock he had found. He discovered a mark: a figure eight scratched into the stone's one flat side. At once he put the stone back on the ground exactly as he had found it, fitting it into the impression left behind in the damp soil. With the rock in this position, the figure eight was lying on its side. One loop pointed back to town, the other to the treacherous path which wound down to the coast.

George picked up the stone once more and, after a long stern look, rapped himself on the forehead with it. Ouch! Well I guess I'm not dreaming!

He started to put the stone in his pocket but changed his mind and returned it once more to its original position. Then George jogged over to the path and began to skitter down to the sea.

Chapter 1

I have never seen Audy react so strongly to any guest of mine, the Gypsy said, casting a curious look at the cat. Audy had leapt to the back of the over-stuffed chair to which the Gypsy had directed her visitor and was now purring loudly at the man's large, freckled ear.

Just a way I have with animals, I guess, the man answered. And he settled back into the chair completely undisturbed by the cat's claws kneading his woolen shirt. But say! his eyes opened wide as if something had just dawned on him. You're not thinking this is a bad omen for me, are ya? This being a black cat and all. He sat forward and twisted around to glare at the animal, which was settling itself as if for a nap. It winked disinterestedly from the top of the back of the upholstered chair.

You say you have a special way with all animals? the Gypsy asked as she studied her client. She stepped around to her own chair, across the round table from him, and watched him carefully as she snatched a square of purple silk out of the air and draped it across the table in a single motion. The man was dumbfounded and could not answer. He now appeared quite uncomfortable. Afraid to take his eyes away either from the Gypsy or the cat, he sat awkwardly twisted on the edge of his chair, shifting his eyes first back to the cat